


ready for the down slide (but not for spring to well up)

by kingtransdrew



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Gore, Canon-Typical Mentions of Jon's Unhealthy Habits, Canon-Typical People Bullying Jon, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms, Canonical Character Death (mentioned), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Police Brutality (mentioned), Spoilers for Season 4 in General, Spoilers for TMA 39 and 179 Specifically, if you can't get canon comfort homemade is fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29097633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingtransdrew/pseuds/kingtransdrew
Summary: Martin looks away again. “What was she like?” He asks, “Towards the end, I mean.”Jon saw that question coming a while back. The second he’d mentioned that he and Daisy had been anything close to friends Martin’s eyes had given away his curiosity, though it had been smothered down in favour of dealing with the mess she’d left Jon’s leg in. Still, even with the time to think on answering, knowing the question was inevitable, he hadn’t quite managed to formulate a complete one.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner (mentioned), Martin Blackwood / Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	ready for the down slide (but not for spring to well up)

**Author's Note:**

> I started reading The Magnus Archives back in October and got a little ways in before I wound up getting busy elsewhere. A two week lockdown in my house a couple weeks back gave me plenty of time to pick it back up and burn through Literally Everything (hehe). 
> 
> Anyways, Daisy is a horrible irredeemable person but wow do I have a lot of feelings about her character arc. This was going to be a much shorter bit with just the discussion but then I got into the concept of how other people have shown care, if at all, and I got sad about how Jon has barely ever had anyone who's touched him without intent to harm him, so! Here we are now. I wrote this for me and then decided everyone else could see it, too. 
> 
> This takes place after 179 but before 180, so Upton House hasn't happened yet. Spoilers for the series through to 179. Kudos and comments always appreciated!

The concept of in-betweens is not something that truly applies anymore. The in-betweens of domains are not so much actual clear-cut places as much as they are simply places that are quiet. Places where fears bleed like watercolours, but where there are few, if any, actual people. They are simply quiet. The closest thing to peace there is in this world.

These places bring equal parts dread and relief. Exiting a fear domain lifts a certain heavy weight off one’s shoulders; a mix of fear and gnawing guilt that weighs both on the shoulders and on the soul. Especially when one is an Avatar who is sustained on the terror that surrounds him, and who feeds that fear to the sky that watches back. There is a lightness to a quiet space that exists nowhere else except the next one ahead.

But to reach it means to enter another fear domain. And that is where the dread hits, heavy in mind and stomach. 

A quiet place is coming. Jon can See it; a stark divide between furnaces and flames and a place where the humidity is thick as fog and the marshy ground is hungry. How very poetic that the Buried be next. 

Usually these quiet places are places to stop and breathe. Get the closest thing to rest they can in a world where rest is no longer a concept that applies. But Jon doesn’t want to stop for this one. There’s an itch under his skin to power through and move on into the Buried, to feed on the fear of those people trapped in the thick marshes, an itch he knows is both Beholding and his own desire to escape the thoughts that already churn in his head. The logic is that the faster they get out of this place, the faster he can move on.

Unfortunately, they’re moving very slow. 

Jon is doing his best to move quickly, both for himself and to keep Martin from worrying too much. He wants to get out of here, and he doesn’t want Martin to fret, and he doesn’t want them to stop because he’ll be fine when they get into the next domain and he can drink in the thick, grimy terror the Buried always feeds him. He thinks he’ll be fine, at least. 

But Jon has never been the best with pain. The Eye had never seen fit to gift him with a pain tolerance anywhere above ‘average at best’ despite the, frankly, ridiculous amount he’s had to endure. There’s no sugarcoating the state of his bloody leg; Daisy had mangled the limb with her bone-scraping bite and her too many teeth. Jon can move slowly at best and even then he’s only upright because he’s leaning into Martin’s side, arm around his waist for support. Martin, who hasn’t said a word since they parted ways with Basira. 

Jon doesn’t need to Know to know that Martin is very, very upset. And Martin is the type to be upset in silence until something causes him to bubble over and spill everything, and the thread that tethers Jon’s sanity is thin and frayed at present, so the silence will have to do. In silence they hobble along. 

It’s going very fine until Jon’s leg decides it’s had enough of his shit and buckles under him. It’s sudden enough that he can’t bite down on a pained cry as he reflexively tightens his grip on Martin’s waist to keep from eating dirt. Martin is quick to stop and grab onto him; one hand gripping him under the arm and the other flying up to steady him at his chest. 

“Sorry-“ Is the first thing he can gasp out, reflexive, unbidden, “S-Sorry, I- I’m fine-“ He tries to steady himself, even as setting his weight back on the injured leg makes him choke on his own words. He’s not good with pain and he’s even worse at hiding it. 

“You’re _not_ fine,” Is the first thing Martin says, “Easy, easy- lean on me, don’t put weight on it if it hurts, love,” He instructs, yet his voice is gentle and if Jon wasn’t already leaning most of his weight on Martin he would’ve melted into him at the petname. As is, he simply obeys and takes the weight off the limb and lets Martin take it, “That’s it, we’re stopping for a rest and I won’t be hearing a _word_ of argument. How long until we reach somewhere we can take a break? That isn’t here?” He asks. 

Jon knows what Martin means by that. Domains are hardly a comfortable place to stop. The in-betweens are kinder. “4 minutes and 47 seconds.” He replies the second the answer manifests on his tongue. 

Martin looks ahead, following Jon’s gaze as his eyes automatically snap in the direction of their new destination. “Alright,” He says, and it’s clear from his slightly dismayed tone he was hoping they were closer, “Alright, ok, I- I don’t think you should be walking on that leg. For now, at least. Here,” He bends down, “Put your arm around my shoulders, would you?” Jon complies, opens his mouth to ask why, and is cut off by his own startled yelp as Martin effortlessly scoops him up into his arms, “And up we go! Comfortable?” He asks, just a touch cheeky. 

Jon feels heat blossom red and uncomfortable across his cheeks and nose. “Mm.” Is his reply, because he doesn’t trust himself not to say something silly, and also he’s petty and doesn’t want to give Martin the satisfaction of his stammering an answer like a flustered schoolboy. 

It’s not that he forgets Martin can lift him without so much as a huff of exertion. It’s been a long time since Jon has been capable of forgetting things. No, he just never expects Martin to actually do it. It’s not a regular occurrence, even back at the Institute Martin much preferred waking him when he’d fallen asleep (or collapsed, depending on the day) in the middle of a particularly intense bout of work (or a particularly rough withdrawal, depending, again, on the day). Jon can recall a few instances where he’d woken up in the Institute’s cot, heavy and groggy, after Martin hadn’t been able to wake him and had just carried him there. 

The walk is quiet. Jon wordlessly brings his other arm up so both are wrapped loosely around Martin’s neck, hands resting on his shoulder. And the memory of it comes as naturally as breathing; the first time Martin had done this. Something he could never forget, even if he didn’t have this clarity granted by the Eye, even if he wanted to forget.

_Sprinting out of his office, Sasha’s hand clasped tight in his as she practically drags him along while he stubbornly clings to the tape recorder he’d risked his arm to grab. Martin has Sasha by the wrist but she’s keeping pace with him just fine. Adrenaline and fear are powerful drugs._

_Martin is yelling but the words are lost to the sounds of the worms closing in on all sides. Floor, walls, even the ceiling, they move in sentient waves of wiggling flesh._

_A flash of writhing silver on the wall. He looks right in time to see them catching up, coiling-_

_“Look out!”_

_The worms leap. Jon ducks, Sasha screams. They hit the wall with a wet sort of crashing sound and scatter across the surface, still chasing, undeterred._

_Jon feels writing on his sleeve and looks to see the worms that have landed on him. He can’t help the horrified cry he lets out as he waves his arm frantically, shaking them off before they can burrow into his sleeve and the skin underneath._

_The pain hits sudden and sharp in his right leg; it stabs deep and this time he really does scream as it goes out from under him. His hand is wrenched from Sasha’s, he hits the floor hard, cracks the recorder against it._

_“Jon!” Sasha cries._

_Jon tries to get back up but the pain is blinding and he chokes on another scream as he drops back to his knees. The worms are practically on top of him already, he’s lost what precious little lead he-_

_Someone seizes him by the arm. Jon blinks and he’s in the air- he’s in arms, Martin’s arms, Martin had run back faster than Jon thought possible and he’s grabbed him and he’s running again._

_“I’ve got you-“ Martin gasps, out of breath and clearly about to cry but pushing on anyways, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you-“_

_Sasha slams the door shut behind them as Martin flies back in. Jon hears her let out a sound of horrified disgust, followed by violent stomping._

_Martin lays him on the cot quickly. “Ok- shit shit_ shit _-“ He curses as Jon writhes, breathing in heavy gasps as the pain just keeps on intensifying, “Jon? Jon I need you to listen to me-“ Martin’s hands are on his shoulders, holding him down with surprising strength, “Where? Where does it hurt?” He demands, his voice shaky even though his hands are steady and firm._

_His vision’s blurring. He wishes one of them would just knock him out. “My- my leg-“ He manages to get out between heaving breaths. Digging, biting, deeper and deeper- how many? How many got him?_

_Martin nods, his mouth drawn into a tight, thin line. Trying not to cry. “Ok- ok this is- this is going to- Sasha!” He turns away, “Sasha, I need you!”_

_There’s a spike of agony so intense Jon’s reflexive jerk almost causes him to knee Martin in the ribs. He cries out, hoarse, voice cracking with it. Sasha is over him suddenly, hair wild and eyes wild and afraid as she looks at him._

_Martin takes his hands away. Moves away, rummages under the pillow Jon’s lying on. Sasha gasps, eyes widening at something he can’t see, and then Martin comes back with-_

_“No-“ Is the first thing out of Jon’s mouth, the fear consuming in the span of a heartbeat as he lays eyes on the wicked corkscrew in Martin’s hand, “No- no no no-“_

_“Hold him down.” Martin says, not looking away from him. And even if Jon could’ve run, Sasha is quick to get herself up and literally straddle his torso to hold him down._

_She grabs hold of his arms, pins them down, looks at him with fearful eyes and whispers, “I’m sorry.”_

_Then Martin stabs the corkscrew into his leg and his vision goes white. Twists. He screams his throat raw._

“Feeling better?” Martin asks softly, snapping Jon out of his stupor.

Jon realizes he’d rested his head against Martin’s shoulder somewhere on that trip down memory lane. But, he doesn’t move from there, feeling all too comfortable and safe against that particular memory. “Much.” He replies honestly, the pain in his leg that had been sharp and grinding now reduced to a dull ache. 

Martin smiles, soft and understated. “What were you thinking about, just now?” He inquires.

“Just remembering,” Jon replies, a truth but not the whole truth, because the things he’s remembering are far from pleasant, “Simpler times and all that.” And it’s horrible that he can call that memory a simpler time in his life. But it was. 

Martin hums an acknowledgement. “Were you thinking of… of her?” He asks tentatively. 

It’s easy for his thoughts to shift back to her. Jon prefers to remember her as she was after the Buried, because the memory of anything before that makes his skin crawl, makes his heart rate pick up. She hadn’t been able to carry him, after the Buried, he doubts she would’ve even tried to. Instead she’d shake him awake, more gentle than he ever thought she could possibly be, tell him she was bringing him somewhere more comfortable. 

He always flinched when he woke up to her standing over him. And she would look so sad. Then she would quietly apologize, and move slowly and gently to help him up and help him to the cot. And she was always gone before he closed his eyes again. 

“I am now.” Jon says after a moment. 

She’d almost never put her hands on him before the Buried. Only once. His hand instinctively goes to the scar on his neck, fingers brushing the pale line made jagged by the struggle. 

“Sorry,” Martin says, automatic, that damned habit neither of them can shake, “I just thought… you- you looked so sad. So distant. I figured… you were thinking of her.” He explains.

Jon sighs softly. “It’s alright, no need to apologize,” Is what he says first, “It’s… I would’ve had to think about her. Eventually. Daisy was… complicated. Everything was complicated when she was with us. I was terrified of her. I hated her,” He takes his hand away from his throat and winds his arm loose around Martin’s neck once more, “She was the closest thing I had to a friend, for a while. Basira and Melanie hated me. You were gone. She was all there was in that place.” He murmurs. 

Basira had found him on the floor beside his desk, barely conscious and unable to get back up. She’d walked right past, grabbed the file she’d needed, and left him there. 

Melanie had caught him by the arms once when he’d swayed and pitched forwards. Her hands were rough, and she’d sighed in frustration before tossing him over her shoulder. She’d dropped him on the cot and left him.

Daisy held up her hands to show him she was unarmed when he pushed himself away from her so violently he fell out of his chair.

Daisy looked at him like she was hungry.

“I barely knew her,” Martin confesses, again bringing Jon back out of his memories. He looks up and frowns softly at the sight of Martin’s expression; sad and guilty, “After the coffin, I mean. I never really saw her. You’re right, she- she terrified me. I didn’t _want to know her_ , I don’t think. Not when I knew what she could do. What she’d already done.” His eyes flick down and they don’t meet Jon’s eyes. It doesn’t matter, he knows where he’s looking.

The scar itches. He resists the urge to scratch at it. 

Martin looks away again. “What was she like?” He asks, “Towards the end, I mean.”

Jon saw that question coming a while back. The second he’d mentioned that he and Daisy had been anything close to friends Martin’s eyes had given away his curiosity, though it had been smothered down in favour of dealing with the mess she’d left Jon’s leg in. Still, even with the time to think on answering, knowing the question was inevitable, he hadn’t quite managed to formulate a complete one. 

“She was… guilty,” He decides to start with, because he’ll never answer if he gets tangled in his thoughts again, “When the Hunt was gone, she couldn’t hide behind it anymore. She was exposed, like a- like a raw wound. And not just to the world, to herself, too. I think... I think it was the first time she really saw herself,” He explains, “And she hated it. I think she hated herself more than she’d ever hated anything, or anyone. So... she tried to be a better person. Even though she knew she’d never be forgiven, could never even ask for forgiveness, she... tried. She was going to let it kill her,” He tips his head back, breathing another quiet sigh, “She chose to die over becoming the person she was. If... if everything hadn’t happened the way it did, I think she would’ve.” 

“Died?” Martin inquires. 

“Mm,” Jon nods, “I think she would’ve let herself waste away until there was nothing left. Without the Hunt there was nothing left to sustain her, she’d already been so deep. What we saw, what was- what the Hunt made her into, that’s what she would have become if she’d never tried to quit. She became everything she hated to save the others- to save us,” He feels his throat tighten and he clears it uncomfortably, “She became the monster she killed in other people. And she got put down like one. She would’ve called her own death justice,” He chuckles, bitter and sad, “The slow death she was halfway to would’ve been kinder.” 

Martin hums his acknowledgment. And it goes quiet for the last bit of their walk. Jon finds himself looking over to see where furnaces end and thick, murky trees begin. The smoke pouring into the atmosphere doesn’t waft over in that direction. It can’t. 

“We’re here.” He announces, even as Martin stops right before where well-trod, packed dirt and gravel meets too-dark grass damp with humidity. 

Martin looks around for a moment, before taking a couple of steps back. “This’ll have to do,” He muses, “Let’s get you down, I want to take a look at that leg.” His tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. 

So, Jon complies. Martin lowers him back to his feet and his leg immediately voices its displeasure at being made to bear his weight again. He grimaces, small, but enough that Martin steadies him with a hand on his elbow and helps him down till they’re both seated on the uncomfortable, gritty ground. 

“Better than being wet,” Martin says with half a chuckle and a small smile. Jon can’t help but huff something akin to a chuckle of his own, “Now, let me see how that’s looking.” 

Jon offers his leg for inspection without protest, because there would be no point. He sits back and leans on his hands, ignoring the gravel that digs into his palms. He checks, briefly, to make sure nothing has cut into the scarred one, as the feeling never did quite come back to those melted nerves, but he’s barely even glanced at his scarred palm when he remembers that Daisy being able to hurt him was the exception to the rule. He puts his hand back down with a frown and watches Martin work.

It’s in the silences that Jon can see Martin’s facade slips. Martin doesn’t lie to him, but he does hide feelings. He’s hiding them now, behind warm smiles and tired attempts at levity. There’s none of that now, in the quiet, when he doesn’t have to say anything. It can just be quiet. And he can look troubled. His eyes have always been so expressive and right now, in the glimpse Jon gets as Martin pulls out the medical supplies he’d thought to pack, those eyes are stormy and difficult to navigate. 

Jon’s never been good at knowing what to say. He doesn’t want to say anything at all, he never does, too many times the response to the wrong thing being said has been some sort of harm. Even though he knows Martin would never hurt him, it’s still hard to forget the things that have been ingrained into him. 

“You wouldn’t have liked her.” He tries. Because he’s trying to remember that he can say the wrong thing with Martin.

“I guess we’ll never know.” And there it is, simple words with the tone all wrong. Bitter and guilty. Martin doesn’t look up from where he finishes rolling Jon’s pant leg up past his knee to expose the blood-splattered bandages. 

It’s both a mercy and a cruelty that Martin wasn’t there. A mercy because he didn’t have to deal with the tensions that rocketed at every noise, the snapping and the arguing, everyone throwing out the most painful accusations they could just so they could hurt someone and feel in control. And it’s cruel because Martin never got to know them. 

“Martin…” He murmurs, and he doesn’t miss the way Martin’s hands tremble as they start carefully unwinding the bandages, “You couldn’t- you couldn’t have known.”

“I could’ve,” The response is quick, with a bit of a bite, “I could’ve and I- I chose not to. I chose to not know. Every time someone _tried_ to let me in I was- I was horrible, and rude, and I pushed them away. I could’ve known but I made the choice not to.” He has to pause for a second, clench and unclench his fists to try and soothe the tremors in his hands.

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that. Because Martin isn’t wrong, he made his choices. But Jon doesn’t know how to explain that he doesn’t think Martin being there would’ve made any difference. How he thinks Martin would’ve probably been dragged down into distrust and snapping with the rest of them. How it was a mercy he never got involved. How it’s cruel he never got to know. How it’s cruel that he doesn’t understand the people Jon struggles to explain. 

The bandages come away and reveal a wound that’s nowhere near as grisly as it should be. Daisy’s teeth were vicious and there were far too many of them and she’d dug in deep till they scraped bone. The wound Martin had initially bandaged had been ragged and deep and pumping blood. Now there are still cuts where Daisy’s teeth had pierced flesh, but they’re smaller and scabbed over. Most of the pain is coming from the deep bruising splotching yellow and purple and blue up to his knee. Dried blood stains his skin, his pant leg, his boot. It’s ugly, but not as bad as it should be. 

Martin lets out a sympathetic hiss, even though he’d seen how much worse the damage was earlier. He casts the bloodied bandages aside and rummages for what he needs. Disinfectant that they don’t even know that they need, a cloth, a fresh roll of bandages. There’s not much else that can be done for it at this point, this alone is already somewhat unnecessary as they both know he’ll be fully healed sooner rather than later. But it’s mundane, it feels normal, so they press on and play pretend. 

Martin starts dabbing at the dried blood to try and clean it off. Jon watches silently. Tries to think of anything but Daisy and the way things were. His mind unhelpfully wanders back to the worms but he lets it. Lets himself recall Martin placing plasters over where other worms had managed to dig into before being twisted out. Martin trying not to laugh at him after he’d thought, in a brief moment of slightly-delirious panic, that Martin might have been a ghost. It’s a nice memory wrapped up in the trauma of everything-

Martin presses near one of the bite wounds and Jon can’t help the wince and the sharp hiss at the pain that cracks through his nerves. 

“Sorry!” Martin jerks back like he’d burned him, “Sorry- sorry, I-“ He cuts off with a hard sigh, shoulders slumping heavy under the weight of what hangs in the air over their heads. He hesitates, hands hovering, before he lets them drop into his lap for a moment, “I… I hate that she could hurt you.” He confesses, quiet, eyes downcast and locked onto Jon’s injured leg. 

Jon pushes himself up off his hands so that he can sit up, be closer. “I know,” He replies, quiet, trying his best to be in the realm of soothing, “If- I’d have been more careful, if- if I’d known. I should’ve-“

“No- no, not-“ Martin cuts him off, twisting the cloth in his hands, “Not just- not just that I mean… I mean that I hate she could hurt you at _all_. That- that she could _do_ that to you, that nobody was _looking_ hard enough to know,” He explains, finally looking up to meet Jon’s eyes, “And then after the Unknowing she was- you saved her, even though she terrified you. And… and she was all you had,” He deflates as he says it, looking down again, “She was terrible, you were terrified of her, and she was- she was the only person you had. That’s… it’s _fucked_ , Jon.” 

“It’s all fucked, Martin,” Jon’s aware that that’s not exactly helpful, right now, but he doesn’t know how to be comforting when there’s no comfort to be found in what’s done and behind him, “You… you can’t torture yourself with what you could’ve done. Trust me, I’m- I’m something of an expert on the subject,” A wry chuckle, tainted bitter, from the mouth of the man who blames himself for this ruined world, “There’s a lot of things that could’ve been done. But the choices were made, and now we move on. We have to keep moving,” He presses, “The past can do enough physically,” It’s a weak attempt at humour, but Martin barely huffs what might be considered a laugh, so he considers it a victory, “We can’t let it torture us emotionally, too.” He tells him. 

Martin sighs. He does a lot of that these days. Jon’s started being able to tell the differences between them and accurately guess how Martin is feeling based off of them. Right now Martin is tired, exhausted, and the weight of the world is heavy. “But we will anyways, won’t we?” Martin sees right through him. It’s oddly comforting, even though it negates his attempts at making him feel better.

Jon keeps his own sigh quiet, exhaling through his nose as Martin starts working on his leg again. “Yes,” He replies honestly, because he won’t lie to Martin even if it’s to comfort him. He deserves his honesty, even if comfort would be kinder, “Yes, we will. But…” He pauses for a moment, thoughtful, watching as Martin cleans blood off of him with tender care. Trying not to hurt him again, “We can pull each other out when we need to, can’t we? We’ve… we’ve got each other. Clearly we did _something_ right.” 

Martin pauses as he retracts his hands. Then he smiles, soft and gentle, and looks up at Jon with such love in his eyes that Jon remembers what it’s like to have his breath stolen away. “You old romantic,” Martin says, and Jon rolls his eyes even as he smiles fondly, “But, yes… yes I think we got one thing right.” He agrees.

“I’m not romantic.” Jon says around a smile and a pleased pink blush, just to get Martin to chuckle that warm chuckle of his that reminds Jon of what the sun on his face used to feel like. 

The quiet that overtakes them now is kinder. Jon sits dutifully still, arms crossed over a bent knee while Martin starts bandaging his leg anew. He watches him do it, thinks about how nobody in his life has ever handled him as gently, or as lovingly, as Martin does. Martin might be one of the true few spots of care left in this world, and Jon would think he’s the only one, if his own care for his boyfriend weren’t so great and consuming. His reason. His anchor. 

Martin sits back. “That ought to last us through the next domain,” He says as he rolls Jon’s pant leg back down, “Give me a moment…” He packs up what he can, leaves on the ground what he can’t, before getting back to his feet and holding out his hands for Jon to take, “Here.” He offers.

Jon Knows he could stand on his own. But, he obliges, taking Martin’s hands and letting Martin pull him up. His hands slide down to hold him steady by his forearms. “How’s it feel?” Martin asks, watching closely.

Jon tests his weight on the limb, and finds that the pain has eased significantly from earlier. He still grimaces slightly as the bone-deep bruises send a deep ache shooting up into his side. “Better,” He replies honestly, “I should be ok to walk, now. It’s just sore.” He adds.

“Oh, no,” Martin shakes his head, “No, not until you stop wincing every time you take a step. Come on,” He bends down and wraps an arm around Jon’s waist, “Arm around my shoulders, you know the drill.” He instructs.

Jon snorts, chuckling despite himself. It’s not like him to swallow his pride, but he does a lot of things that aren’t like him these days, so he’ll add it to the list of things only Martin can get him to do. “Fine,” He obliges, slipping his arm around Martin’s broad shoulders, “You will have to put me down in there, unless you want me to take my statement in your arms.” He points out.

Martin scoops him up again, the motion fluid and effortless. “Depends on the statement,” He muses, cheeky just for the sake of it, because they both know he won’t stick around on purpose to hear it, “Not all of them can be just the absolute worst things possible.”

“We’re heading into a Buried domain.”

“Eugh, never mind,” Martin pulls a face, and Jon laughs, “I’ll sit you in a tree out of the mud and you can just call for me when you’re done.” 

Jon raises a brow at him. “And what sort of statement would you listen to?” He asks, amused.

“One with spiders.” Martin informs him and Jon laughs again. Martin joins him after a moment, and they laugh together. They walk into the Buried, and Martin’s laughter cuts off as the air turns wet and heavy and makes him cough, which only makes Jon laugh harder while he sputters and turns red with indignation. 

They start to talk only moments in, so that they don’t have to listen to the shifting and the moaning beneath the murk. Jon leans his head against Martin’s shoulder and lets his arms wrap loose around his neck. There is no place safer in this world than Martin’s arms, Jon thinks, as he keeps his eyes open only so that he can See. If sleep were possible, he’d sleep here. Comfortable, warm, and the safest he has ever been and ever will be. 

Jon will save Martin from carrying as much of the weight as possible in this nightmare world, but he can allow Martin to carry him. The weight of the world doesn’t change that he is a small and slight man. And Martin has never struggled with that weight. He’d probably say something poetic about how Jon’s the perfect shape to fit in his arms, and Jon would laugh if only to distract from the flustered blush that would inevitably overtake his face, but Martin would notice anyways. He always notices.


End file.
